


Three Points Make A Trend

by Davechicken



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 20:04:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19363354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Davechicken/pseuds/Davechicken
Summary: Crowley really needs to stop ending up in Heaven's detention block. Anyone would think he likes being there. (He does not.)





	Three Points Make A Trend

This really was a habit that wasn’t healthy for him. The first time had been an accident, an... adolescent’s semi-rebellion, letting himself fold under peer pressure. The second time had been deliberate, prompted by a long-dead witch and with assurance that it would be temporary. This time... third time might well prove unlucky. He’d always pushed the envelope, nudged at the boundaries, seeing what he could get away with.

And as hard as it had been for a demon to break _into_ Heaven (again), it was looking almost impossible for him to break out.

Especially from inside Heaven’s Sacred Guantanamo Bay. 

Don’t let anyone fool you: Heaven really isn’t all flowers and roses and twinkly music forever. Except, it is, but in that horror movie kind of way when you know they’re making burgers out of puppies who bark too much, and everyone has to fold their underwear just so or they’ll be wiped from existence. 

Crowley looked at the plain, white walls. They hadn’t redecorated in forever. It was dull. Dull, and uninspiring, and insipid, and soul-crushing. Not that Hell was any better, but my giddy aunt did he hate this place. 

He wondered what the delay was. He was pretty sure that, after damning, the next step was annihilation. It’s what Hell had tried to do to ‘him’, and Heaven to ‘Aziraphale’. They likely didn’t get a third chance. All he could hope was that somehow, Aziraphale wasn’t actually here. He’d gone missing, and Crowley had panicked and searched all of the universe (rapidly), and come to the conclusion that Heaven had worked out the old switcheroo, or some other sin, and had captured the angel to do unspeakable things to him.

Which meant, of course, that Crowley had to save him. 

Crowley often had to save him. In recent centuries he’d wondered if Aziraphale was either being lazy about his safety, or enjoyed the thrill of danger and being rescued like some camp Disney princess. Which just showed how outdated he was. It was the current vogue for princesses to rescue everyone _else_. 

And now, he’d gotten captured trying to save Aziraphale, and his only hope of salvation was – well – the angel he’d just tried to save. No one else gave any kind of shit about him, or would actively rejoice in his downfall, so it was a bath without a towel in his not-too-distant future. He shuddered at the memory of burned Duke of Hell, the sound of him breaking into nothing. The... the... awareness of his own, limited mortality...

“Not often you see a prodigal demon.”

The voice came from outside his boring cell, breaking the monotony and a perfectly good brood. But it did give him something to think about. “Prodigal would imply I chose to return, cap in hand.”

“You didn’t?”

“Do you see a cap?”

“I don’t see you at all.”

Fair. He tilted his head, trying to pinpoint the direction, trying to see if he recognised the voice. It was vaguely familiar, but the haughty tones of angels were... okay so this one wasn’t as haughty.

“What about you? You here to gloat, drag my fingernails out, or wait for your own execution?”

“None of those... but I am here for something I did, a long time ago.”

Cryptic. Fine. Was this angel fond of the Times Crossword, or were they just another asshole. 

“Alright. I’ll bite.”

“Nothing to bite,” the disembodied voice replied. “I did something a long time ago. For the right reasons, but the wrong thing. At least, I told myself it was for the right reasons.”

“A lot of that going around.”

“I guess you’re right.”

Crowley tapped his heels and toes together, idly, wondering if he could miracle up some Ruby Slippers and wish himself back to London. Of course, his powers were drowned out here, and even if he made it out, he was sure the Host would never stop hunting him down. 

“What about you?” his neighbour asked. “If you didn’t come home to see the pigs.”

“Eh. I thought I’d do a Banksy on the walls. You know. Old time’s sake.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

He was feeling a little peeved. He was still angry about having let himself be captured, for one. And for two, fuck Heaven. 

“I suppose that’s a fair trade.” The voice hummed, soft and echoing. “You know about the Plan.”

“Which one, the Plan, the Ineffable Plan, or some New Plan for the Post-Ineffable world?”

“Precisely.”

“Clear as mud. Everything is fucked up, and the Antichrist is a rather decent young man. Despite my best – and worst – efforts.” His fingers scratched through his hair, wondering if Prayer to Adam could maybe trump this cell. If Adam even listened any more. He’d been rather happy being an eleven year old boy, last Crowley saw. 

“Well. I believed in the Plan. All of them. And I made sacrifices. Like chess-pieces. I made... less than honourable castles of my pieces. And I won.”

“If you won, why are you here?”

“Because battles are not wars. And because when your opponent sees your tactics, you have to change. And because I did things I need to redress the balance for. And because this metaphor isn’t perfect.”

“Simile.”

“Sorry?”

“You said ‘like’. Like chess pieces. That’s a simile, not a metaphor.”

He could hear the smile, and – worst – he could hear Aziraphale’s smile. He’d have liked that. Daft git that he was. 

“Your turn.”

Okay. He pulled his knees towards his chest, and dropped his chin on them. It was semi-comforting to huddle up like this, as he whiled away his last hours talking grammatical semantics with a stranger. 

“Someone... someone did something stupid, and... I had to help them.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He’s always doing it. But this time was – uh – big. And... I thought I could outwit the Archangels and what have you, and it turns out they upgraded the alarm system after last time.”

“Last time.”

“W-ell... you see, this... guy... he kind of messed up before. And I had to help him then, too.”

Idiot that he was.

“He couldn’t stay saved?”

“Apparently not. He’s... he’s got a nose for trouble.” And then some. He was always around Crowley, after all. “And I guess he did one thing too much and it caught up with him. And the worst thing is, I can’t tell if I want him to know I tried to save him and failed, or...”

“Or?”

“Well. I guess if he didn’t know, he might try to do something stupid like save _me_.”

“It sounds like you are very close friends.”

Close. Try, pretty much their whole lives. Try, crawled inside each other’s bodies and went to their respective domains to save each other. Try, Aziraphale had his burner phone number, and knew how he liked his coffee, and was – was – the only thing Crowley considered really more important than his own self-preservation. And he had a key to his flat. Which he totally didn’t need, but the gesture was still important. 

“Guess so.”

And now he’d – they’d – they’d never get to go to the park again. Never feed the ducks. Never go for cream teas. Never listen to his car’s idea of classical music. Never get drunk and argue over the best place to source wine, or the best play they’d seen, or...

Shit. He hoped Aziraphale found his way free. Maybe even that they’d just... wiped him. So he was back to ‘normal’. So he forgot all those sinful little things they’d enjoyed together, so he wouldn’t know what he was missing. Crowley dug his teeth into the soft flesh of his inner jaw, and clamped until little stars murked around his vision.

“You’d really risk everything for him.”

“Looks like it,” he laughed, strained, like peaches from a tin. “Always was too sure of myself for my own good.”

“And this... other person?”

“Mmmm?”

“Would you say he’d do the same for you?”

Oh, for the love of all that existed, Crowley hoped so. He did. And he was almost entirely certain it was true, except for those little niggling voices in the back of his head. Those worried spaces between words, when doubt crept in. Aziraphale had done plenty for him, but was there ever going to be a step too far?

“Doesn’t matter,” he decided, and barked it back. “Isn’t why I’m here. He – he’s worth saving.” And he was. Oh, he was. 

“He is?”

“Look. I don’t know what you know about him, or even if you know him, but I do. I know him better than any bloody angel or demon could. And that makes me the expert and that means I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that I never met a better angel than Aziraphale.”

“And a demon would know?”

“Fucking Hell, a demon would know! All these stuffed up frocks here, too busy wanting to fight Hell to give half a shit about the – the – world! The world _She_ made and wanted everyone to look after. They’ve all lost the damned plot, if they even knew it in the first place. They’re just as hate-filled as Hell is, only they like to pretend they aren’t, and I’d sack the whole damn lot of them off. Aziraphale actually gives a shit about others. Not just me, but everyone he sees. He wants to be _nice_ to them because it makes them _happy_. And he wants to make things better. And sure, he’s an insufferable prat with poor fashion taste and he has a few annoying qualities, but at least he bloody TRIES. And—“ he’d started this, so he had to continue.

“AND – he’s – he’s – he can be a laugh and he knows more about Humans than anyone else and he still likes them. He’s not squeaky clean but that means he’s better, because he can fuck up but he tries to not fuck up, and I don’t know about you, but I’d rather trust someone like that than a goddamn murder-bot angel, or one that can’t think for themselves.”

Maybe he shouldn’t have shouted so much. But he was **livid**. How dare Heaven try to punish him, for showing them all what they should be doing? How. DARE. THEY.

It made him so mad, he could kick down the damn doors and storm right up to the Godly Throne and give Her a piece of his mind, if he could only break out of this awful, crushing, energy-sapping spell. 

“You love him.”

“So WHAT if I do? You think demons can’t love? Well – fuck you! I love harder than anyone, because I know what it’s like to lose it, and because – because – I have to _earn_ it. He’s my angel, and I’d break back in a hundred – thousand – million times if I had to. Because he’s _worth it_.”

The voice didn’t speak again, and Crowley was incensed. Heaven! Even the prisoners knew better about love and caring and sacrifice than the angels (most of them). He’d stare them all right in the eye and scream his love and make them all uncomfortable and doubt themselves, even as he bubbled away like a cartoon shoe. He’d make the whole lot of them see they were empty inside, broken, and dead. He knew love – real love – and he would die with Aziraphale the last thing on his mind and he hoped to fuck that the angel never forgot him. Never thought less of him. Never ignored the fact that he’d been so utterly wonderful that he could even make a demon fall for him and throw himself into oblivion in the hopes of saving him. 

Footsteps that were trying to be light but just sounded conspicuous rounded the corner. His head tilted in anticipation, wondering if now was the time. Had they baited him just to make him upset before they did it?

“Crowley?”

“An—Aziraphale?”

He was on his feet and at the blank wall in a nanosecond. Hands and face pressed against the cool material, as he craned out to hear him.

“Crowley, where are you?” The angel hissed lowly, urgently, his voice moving up and down.

“I’m here! I’m here, you bloody fool! Let me out!”

“I’m trying! Oh, dear... I was... they were interrogating me, and all of a sudden I was... Crowley, I think... I think I was talking to...”

Her. Wait. Aziraphale had spoken to G—to God? And where was the voice, now? Where was that curious, questioning, probing entity? 

What had they said? Things they needed to redress the balance for? 

Crowley felt drained, suddenly. Had he just been talking to the Almighty, and cursing right at Her, whilst declaring that Her whole flock bar one was a bunch of shit and the only one worth saving was this one? And – uh – that he... 

“There! Oh, my dear, you look—“

Crowley’s knees felt like they’d buckle under him. He’d just howled his piece at the Lord Herself, told Her that he was perfectly capable of loving an angel, and that he’d die a million times over for him. 

It was not what he’d rehearsed in his head, for the never-going-to-happen event that he got to air his grievances with God, and he laughed. 

“Can you get us home?” he asked, instead.

“Yes. But... what if they... what if they come after us again?”

Crowley realised his angel was saving _him_. Just like She had asked if he would. And just like Aziraphale rarely had to. 

Redressing the balance. Chess pieces. Ones that had been sacrificed, perhaps. The simile wasn’t perfect, because... unless you reset the board, those pieces were gone. 

“I – I think we’re... going to be okay.” He held his hand out, waiting to be pulled from the trap he was bound in. 

He was pretty sure God had just given him The Talk. Or something. And he’d passed.

It didn’t make up for all the shit, and he was still not prodigal, but his angel was a better gift than anything he could have asked for. And he was sure he would have come for him, if the tables were reversed. It was just what they did: saved one another. 

“Good,” his angel said, and pulled them back out from Heaven, with a wrench that belied borrowed power. “Don’t ever scare me like that, again.”

“Scare _you_? You got kidnapped first!”

“Yes. Well. I’m sorry.”

He reached out for the angel’s little finger, brushing it with his own. “I guess I’ll let you off.” He wasn’t going to say ‘forgive’, because that wasn’t his word to use. But he did, all the same.


End file.
